


can't you see that i'm lonely (rescue me)

by RowboatCop



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Daisy Is A Superhero, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Coulson/Rosalind Price, Not Rosalind Price friendly, Oral Sex, Post 3x07, Rescue, Rosalind Price is Madame Hydra, comic book villain rosalind price
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 19:52:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5218709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/pseuds/RowboatCop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daisy saves Coulson after Rosalind Price kidnaps him; then they save each other from being lonely and closed off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	can't you see that i'm lonely (rescue me)

“She’ll come get me,” he tells Rosalind from his position at her desk. He’s not tied there, but she’s taken his robotic hand and he’s certainly been given reason to believe that if he makes any sudden moves, Banks will shoot first and ask questions later.

Still, even with his hand missing, it’s probably the most civil kidnapping he’s ever been involved in.

“It’s cute how you think that isn’t exactly the plan, Phil,” Rosalind answers, and every look she shoots at him drips with contempt. She’s a better spy than he is, he knows, if she could keep that look from showing for the weeks they’ve been working together.

“This was always about Daisy,” he realizes.

He was supposed to be protecting Daisy and he’s, what, turned himself into perfect bait for her instead.

“It’s like you’ve forgotten that that’s how it started, too.”

She reaches down and adjusts the knot of his tie, like she’s prettying him up for the occasion, like he’s a small child who needs the help.

“And here I thought you liked me for my mind.”

She just smirks, and he’s almost offended. Not like he’s fallen in love with her or anything so dramatic, but he’d thought maybe there was something like a mutual respect. At least professionally.  

Not so much, it turns out.

“How long do you think before our young Miss Johnson shows up here for you, Phil? How long before she walks right into my trap?”

And for the first time he understands why she’s keeping him _here_ , here in this office overlooking the large open floorplan below. From here, they’ll be able to watch when Daisy enters, and he’ll have front row seats to whatever trap has been set.

“You’re laying on the Bond villain shtick a little thick, Rosalind,” he answers, trying to keep his voice light, trying not to betray how terrified he is. “Does that mean that this is the part where you reveal your evil plan to me?”

“Oh, please, Phil. If I’m a Bond villain now,” she rolls her eyes at that, “you’re just the Bond girl. If I’d reveal my plan to anyone, it would be to Daisy, wouldn’t it?”

He smiles, wonders if this is supposed to offend him. Rosalind can’t really understand him so well if she thinks so.

Still, she seems to relax, to view him as a minimal threat, and that relaxes her tongue, too.

“There’s a high price on your head, did you know that? For you and Daisy both.” Coulson narrows his eyes because there’s only one person he can think of who would want him dead that much, and —  “You’re my ticket back inside Hydra.”

Coulson closes his eyes and exhales hard.

“So you, what, want to usurp Grant Ward?”

“That’s the general idea,” she agrees. “Rightfully, that position is mine. I just need to get close enough to take it.”

He doesn’t get the chance to get further explanation, though, before the front door comes shooting off its hinges and Daisy strides into the building below.

“Even quicker than I’d thought,” Price laughs, raising an eyebrow at him. “I guess you mean a lot to her. Someone should tell her not to let you out of her sight.”

“Whatever you’re planning to do with her —”

“She _is_ something, isn’t she?” Rosalind cuts him off as she looks down at Daisy with something in her eye that he _really_ doesn’t like, something scheming and objectifying. “She’s the only one of _them_ I’ve ever seen with that level of power and control.”

Coulson watches as Daisy blocks a barrage of bullets fired at her and then flicks her wrist, vibrating apart the guns of everyone in front of her.

“The girl is impressive,” she tells him before hitting a button on the wall.

Some kind of net, humming with an electric current, falls from the ceiling towards Daisy, and Coulson screams out to her. He can see her raise her hands, push air currently up towards it, maybe have a fighting chance.

And then the butt of Banks’s gun makes contact with his forehead and everything goes black.

  


* * *

 

  


“Coulson?”

He hears her voice distantly, as though from underwater.

“Coulson?”

Her hands are on his face, framing his cheeks, pressing to his neck — feeling his pulse, he realizes.

“ _Phil_.”

“Daisy,” he manages to get out her name, more of a groan than actual speech.

“Hey,” she smiles at him when he’s finally able to get his eyes open, to see her as something other than a blob in his vision.

“Where’s Price? Is she —”

“She’s taken care of,” Daisy answers, sounding a little ominous.

“Did you —”

“No. I thought a medically induced coma would be the more humane option.”

Coulson actually laughs, even though it hurts his head.

“You’re bleeding,” Daisy whispers, and the draws a disposable cloth across his forehead, cleaning him up with a gentle touch.

“I’m okay,” he answers, voice too soft as Daisy leans over him. “My vision’s clear and the headache isn’t too bad.”

“Good.”

Slowly, she guides him to a seated position, and he watches as she reaches into the side of her belt and comes back with a butterfly bandage.

“You packed bandages?”

“Have you _met_ you?”

He laughs, wrinkling his eyebrow and opening the cut again, and Daisy dabs at the blood flow again with her dirty cloth before opening another one — antibacterial medicated things from the same pouch — and cleans his wound again.

He can’t stop watching her face as she works: her soft eyes and her furrowed eyebrows and her lip caught between her teeth.

Once the bandage is applied, she presses her fingers over it gently, making sure it’s sticking and holding together the skin above his right eyebrow.

And then her finger drifts down and smooths across his eyebrow, like she’s setting it right.

“Much better,” she pronounces, and Coulson can’t hold back a soft smile at her. He’s helpless and broken and grateful — so, so grateful for her, he could cry.

“Thank you,” he whispers, voice cracked and quiet.

“For what?”

“For coming for me. Even though this is all my fault.”

“No it isn’t,” Daisy shakes her head.

“It is. I thought I could handle it. I thought I understood her. I thought she was...me.”

“You?” Her face says that this is the most patently absurd thing she’s ever heard.

“I used to have some wrong ideas about things, too,” he reminds her.

“Not like this. Not like her.”

“No,” he agrees. “No, I see that now. She said something about Hydra, being the rightful leader of Hydra.”

Daisy’s lips part, drawing in a breath.

“She was going to, what, use you as leverage against Ward?”

“You, too,” he clarifies.

Daisy nods, and he can see her processing this, taking it in.

“It’s not your fault that she tricked you,” Daisy whispers, and this time both of her thumbs smooth across his eyebrows, her fingers a light touch at his temples.

“It kind of is. I knew she was tricking me and I let her. I thought I needed to.”

“To keep me safe?”

They both know the answer to that is _yes_ , but also that it’s a little more complicated than that.

“The last time I let someone trick me, even though I knew that’s what she was doing, it worked out a little better.”

He touches her shoulder with his right hand, soft and friendly, and it gets him a smile.

It’s not until he lifts his left arm that he remembers the robotic hand is missing, and he drops it down out of her line of vision.

“Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You think I don’t see you around the base with it off? You take it off around Mack and Bobbi and Hunter and Fitz, but around me…”

Coulson closes his eyes.

“Is it because…” She swallows. “Do you blame me? Because my mother —”

“No,” he’s so adamant, his voice cracks again. “No, the opposite. I don’t want you to see it and think about that, to think that it might be your fault.”

Daisy closes her eyes for a long moment, then offers a weak smile and shakes her head, maybe a little bit at their ridiculousness.

“Do you know where she put it?”

“That cabinet, but it’s —”

He doesn’t have a chance to tell her it’s locked before she’s set her hand on the mechanism.

The cabinet falls open, no visible damage done, and Daisy reaches inside easily.

“Have I mentioned how amazing your gift is?”

“No,” she turns to him, his robot hand held in her right hand. “I don’t think you have.”

Another thing he’s been avoiding, another thing they haven’t talked about very openly.

“It’s amazing. You’re amazing.”

She smiles at that, a real smile, glows a little bit like it means a lot, and brings him his hand.

“We better get out of here. We can send a team to guard the building until we decide what to do with the people they’ve got back there.”

And this isn’t over — not by a long shot, not when the president seems to have been in Rosalind Price’s back pocket — but he nods anyways.

For now, he just needs to be home in his bed.

  


* * *

 

  


Daisy wakes him up the next morning with coffee, stepping into his quarters like it’s no big deal even though it is.

He’s pretty sure it’s a big deal to see her first thing in the morning, in his room, the both of them still in their pajamas.

“How are you?”

“Much better,” he answers, touching his right index finger to the bandage above his eyebrow as he repositions himself in his bed — still under the blankets, sitting up against the headboard.

“Good.”

She hands him a mug, which he takes with his right hand since his prosthetic is still in the case across the room, and then sits down in a chair conveniently positioned by his bed.

“Were you here during the night?”

She nods once.

“I just wanted to make sure…”

He watches Daisy swallow, watches her prevaricate and look down at her feet before she finally meets his eyes again.

“I’ve been angry with you,” she tells him. “I didn’t mean to be, but I have been.”

“I deserved it.”

“Maybe,” she allows, and it makes him smile. “You’ve been closing me out. And then I realized that actually…”

“ _You’ve_ been closing _me_ out.” It comes out more like an accusation than he means for it to, but before he can back off of it, she nods.

“I have. We never talked about it when I changed my name, even though I could tell you wanted to ask about it.”

“I think I understand,” he offers, and he does, he understands what _Daisy_ means to a woman who grew up believing she had never been loved, what it means to a woman who wants to do right by her mother’s legacy, to feel herself connected to something better.

“I know.” She smiles at him, soft and real. “And I kept it from you when I was in contact with Lincoln, and that was…”

“Why did you? You know I would never begrudge you a personal relationship.”

“Really?”

He blushes at the implication in her tone.

She licks her lips, takes a sip of her coffee as she watches him.

“There’s a lot I wanted to tell you lately that I felt like...I couldn’t.”

“I know the feeling.”

“Do you? Because I…”

Daisy stands up, sets her coffee down on his nightstand and then takes his, sets it down the same. His heartbeat picks up, fast pounding in anticipation. But he doesn’t even dare anticipate, doesn’t even dare hope.

“Daisy?”

“I realized something last night,” she tells him, “about everything I wanted to tell you.”

She sits down carefully on the edge of his bed, and Coulson squeezes his right hand against the duvet, squeezes hard so he can hold back the suddenly-pressing need to touch her.

“Yeah?”

Daisy leans forward then and brushes her lips against his, soft and gentle and not something he’s ever imagined he would get to feel.

He’s too stunned to even respond, too shocked to do more than gasp, and then she pulls back to meet his eyes.

All he can manage is a blink, like he's trying to make the world make sense when everything has just been flipped in its head.

“Coulson?”

He wraps his hand around the back of her neck and pulls her against him, kisses her again, harder and much more desperate.

“I didn’t think,” he tells her, breathless gasps between kisses. “I didn’t think you’d ever…”

She sucks his lower lip into her mouth, and he groans at the soft scrape of teeth and the gentle flick of her tongue.

He’s still tingling from that move when she straddles him, grinding down against him through his blankets, her hands on his shoulders pinning him to the headboard.

As they kiss, he lets his hand smooth down the line of her back until it rests at the bottom of her shirt, the edge of her sweats.

But Daisy is the one who pulls back in order to work her hands underneath his shirt, both palms pressed to his belly. It feels heavenly — her skin against his — but he’s so _conflicted_ about the idea of this, about her seeing him naked, about her seeing him for what he really is.

“Okay?”

He doesn’t respond, but when she goes to draw her hands back, he shakes his head.

“I just,” Coulson swallows and draws his left arm to his body, sets his forearm over his heart. “It’s ugly, and I don’t want you to think of me as —”

“I _wouldn’t_.”

He nods once and slips his right hand up under her shirt to touch her spine, fingers splayed across her lower back.

“How did you manage with —”

“I kept my shirt on,” he answers before Daisy can say her name.

“Is that what you want to do now?”

“No,” he answers easily because it’s not what he wants, not with her.

“Good,” she sighs, and then she raises his shirt up quickly, like ripping off a band-aid, and slides her body down enough that she can kiss him lightly next to his belly button and then up the line of thickening chest hair until her lips drag across his scar.

“Daisy,” he sighs her name.

“Not ugly,” she promises him, her voice soft, and he’s never felt more loved than he does with her mouth pressed to his scar.

“I _love_ you,” is all he can manage at that, at her tenderness and her acceptance. Her kisses slowly slide up from his chest to his neck, until she’s biting a soft trail across the line of his jaw to his right ear.

“I know,” she whispers there, and he has to laugh until she pulls back and captures his lips again.

As they kiss, he tugs her shirt up, and they break apart so he can get it over her head and cast off the side of the bed. She’s just as gorgeous as he’d always figured she would be, just as perfectly formed, just as soft.

He’s not particularly gentle when he tugs her up against him, sliding down the bed enough that he can get his mouth on her neck and then her breasts, dragging his tongue and his lips and his teeth over every part of her he can manage.

It’s not until he’s slid down the bed far enough to press his mouth against the scars from her gunshot wounds that he begins to work down her sweats with his right hand.

“Phil,” she moans his name when he gets his lips to the slight lower curve of her belly, almost at the top of her pubic mound, but he can’t get her pants any lower without help.

It’s awkward as she shifts her weight above him, as she kicks her pajamas off the side of the bed, but then she’s naked on top of him, naked and poised almost over his chin, and Coulson squeezes his right hand too tight against her ass as he pulls her down onto his mouth.

Daisy gasps when his tongue presses against her, moans quietly at the sensation of sucking kisses against her before he begins to move in earnest.

Somehow, though, he’s surprised when she moves her hips over him, when she _grinds_ down against his face, and he groans helplessly at the sensation, presses harder against her ass in an attempt to encourage it.

“Shit, Coulson,” she sighs, and he can barely hear it with her thighs on either side of his head and the blood pounding in his ears.

When she comes, it’s with her clit pulsing against his tongue and her hips pressing down against his chin, and he would happily continue, but she pulls back.

“Daisy,” he grunts her name in disappointment, and then is more than a little surprised when she turns around on top of him.

“Shh, Phil.”

He moans desperately at the feel of her hands shoving his sweats down his thighs, at the sensation of her fingers closing around his bare cock, and then she presses her hips backwards, pushes her clit back against his tongue as her lips close over him.

“Daisy,” he gasps her name again, muffled by her flesh against his tongue.

He’s quick to begin working her back up again, strong certain movements now that he knows what she likes, whereas her lips are so soft and gentle against his cock — like she’s learning him, tasting him, and it’s inexplicably hot.

And this position generally leaves something to be desired, but now all he wants is to make her come again — to make her come again while she drags her tongue along the head of his cock like a tease and a treat.

He can feel when she gets close because her lips get more adamant over his cock, and it feels like a race — like he has to get her off again before she makes him come. His right hand clutches hard at the top of her thigh, where he’s wrapped his arm to keep her in place, and his left arm lands at the back of her other leg, trying to push her down harder against his mouth.

Coulson wins — barely, he barely wins, when her hips grind back against his face desperately as she takes him deeper into her mouth, deeper and tighter until his eyes cross and his lungs burn. And it takes everything he has not to come from the sensation, from the taste of her on his tongue, from the view of her ass above his head.

Daisy pulls back, though, pulls back and collapses beside him with her feet by his head and her head resting near his knees.

“Shit, Coulson.”

He can hear her panted breaths, see the way her body is still shaky, and he turns himself, kicks his sweats the rest of the way off, and crawls over her to nuzzle undemandingly at her neck and her breasts, to ease her down.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbles against her right nipple.

“You’re not so bad either,” she answers, and he’s surprised to see her so recovered, looking at him with a fondness and a softness that’s not new — not at all — but that he’d never imagined he’d see _here_.

Daisy wraps her legs around his hips, pulls him down against her in a loving embrace, and kisses him like she doesn’t mind the way her wetness is spread all over the lower part of his face.

“Do you have condoms?”

“Yeah,” Coulson answers, suddenly feeling more demanding as his cock pressed between her legs, against her thigh, against her lower belly.

Daisy is the one who rolls out from underneath him and reaches into the nightstand at his behest and retrieves one, who pulls it out and rolls it down his shaft.

And he doesn’t want to think about it — not here, not now, not when things are so perfect — but he can’t help but think about the last time he did this. He had fumbled through this process by himself, trying to hold his cock carefully in his robotic hand, unwilling to trust her with this task.

This is different — so different, so _good_ so much better, that he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Once she’s rolled on the condom, Daisy rolls them so he’s back on top and looking down at her, leaning his weight on his left forearm so his right hand can touch her.

“I never imagined we would be here,” he whispers against the side of her face as he kisses a trail to her ear.

“Never?”

“Too much to hope for,” he offers by way of explanation. “I’m not entirely convinced that this isn’t a dream.”

Daisy raises an eyebrow at that and leans up to bite him again, a sharp nip against his chin before dragging her teeth along his jaw.

He laughs, a sharp burst of amusement.

“Not a dream,” she promises, and then guides him slowly to press inside of her.

Everything slows down when he pushes into her, when she wraps her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders and just _holds_ him.

They move slowly together, like reveling in this thing between them, a tangle of limbs and lips and bodies until she rolls them again, rolls them so she’s poised on top and begins to move her hips over him.

He’s a goner like this, with the vision of her and the desperation of her movements pulling him to the edge, and it’s only luck that lets him hold out for her, hold out so they come together, and it’s _good_ , so much more than the pleasure shooting up his spine and down his hips, so much more than the chemical release of it.

And he’s known, known for some time, that he loves her desperately and hopelessly, but for the first time he realizes how _lonely_ he’s been for her — for her company, for her touch, for any taste of her.

So he holds her tight against his chest, his right hand curved around her shoulder blade and his left arm resting against her back.

“I’ve missed you,” Daisy whispers against his shoulder, like she’s reading his thoughts.

“Me, too.”

“You think we can do better?” Can they avoid closing off, can they avoid hiding their pain from each other?

“Better, yes. But it will always be hard.”

“Why?”

“Fear,” he answers, shrugging. “That I’ll hurt you. Or lose you. Or get taken away from you somehow.”

“Nothing could ever hurt as much as feeling like you’re keeping things from me.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“And as for getting separated...I’ll always come get you, you know.”

“Yeah,” he answers with a smile, “I do.”

  
  


 


End file.
